The Queen's Seal
by M.M. Chertoff
Summary: Nasuada gains confidence in her new role of Queen, but her painful memories still haunt her. Her sworn vassal, friend and lover struggles to find a way to help her to find peace within herself, for her sake and for his. M for explicit content, mature themes. Please Review!
1. Chapter 1 - Betrothal

The Book of Murtagh

Volume Two, The Queen's Seal

Chapter One

The Palace in Ilirea

The Queen's Workroom. Late Afternoon.

The work table is clear and polished. There are flowers everywhere. Music and sounds of talk and laughter drift up from the courtyard below. The balcony doors are open and light filmy drapes sway in the spring breeze.

The outer door opens and Murtagh and Nasuada rush in laughing. They are both beautifully dressed and exhilarated. They come to the center of the room and kiss, swaying to the dance music from outside. They look into each other's eyes and Nasuada begins undoing the gold clasps of Murtagh's white jacket. He gently unlaces her bright golden gown and slides it down over her shoulders, revealing her lace-trimmed chemise. She slides her hands beneath his jacket, over his chest and around his neck. They kiss again as he shrugs off the jacket and throws it on a chair. He unfastens his collar, pulls off his red silken scarf, and gazes down at her as she delicately unbuttons his shirt. She waits while he, very slowly, undoes her chemise and cups his long, strong hands under her full dark breasts, breathing hard.

Her head falls back as his hands slide behind her and brush her full-skirted gown over her hips, letting it fall to the floor. Her chemise follows and her tiny gold sandals too as he lifts her in his arms and carries her to her bed. He lays her gently on the folded sheet, tears off his boots, sword belt and leggings and lies down beside her. At first he gazes at her in the soft golden light, drinking in the dark glory of her skin, the richness of her curves, the delicacy of her slender flanks and long sinuous neck. She strokes his chest and nibbles at his muscular arm and shoulder, breathing in deeply the warm, spicy scent of his maleness.

He kisses her long and deep and her arms circle him, stroking his broad muscular back, tracing the long scar from his left shoulder to his right hip, her wrist just grazing the brand mark on his lower back. She clutches his shoulders and arches back as his mouth touches the angle of her chin and moves tenderly to her neck. Her soft moans tell him how she welcomes the deep pressure of his kiss on her tender skin. Her hands stroke his head and twine in his dark hair, and he moves lower to her full and swelling breasts.

The light from the windows sheds a ruddy glow on his eager face. She looks down at him and traces the line of his glowing cheek and strong jawline, feeling her newly betrothed husband's slight bristle, grown out just since that morning. How odd it must be to be a man! How wonderful to hold him like this, skin to skin, feeling her power to give him such pleasure just by being herself, looking as she looks. She gloried in offering him her beauty and grace of form, reveling in his adoration, his love, his tenderness yet tinged with that scent of dangerous masculinity, that promise of more to come that enticed her with something like menace.

Yet he needed her so. That was her power as well, to give him what he had long needed and hungered for. She rolled slightly so that his lips brushed her nipple, and held his head against her, kissing his dark hair and damp forehead. "Please" she murmured into his ear. "Please kiss my breasts." His gasp of surprised pleasure cooled her soft rosy aureole for the second it took him to swallow, glance up at her, and bring his warm mouth back where she longed to feel it. She relaxed into the soft lapping of his tongue, the gentle suckling pressure of his lips, feeling her womanliness expand against him, her fierce love for him flow from her in a warm lush flood from the nipple he suckled so hungrily. She wanted him to know of that feeling, and, inviting the touch of his mind, she felt the brush of his consciousness against hers and shared with him the feel of her love for him, gushing like a sweet warm spring from her breast into his eager mouth, making more of itself within her swelling breasts, the more he drew it from her. Stroking his cheek, she felt it glowing warm and now wet with tears, the sign of his deep joy in receiving her woman's gift.

Now the sky was darkening, the voices below diminishing, and the simple dance tunes had changed to the wilder strains of the elven singers, pipers and harpists filling the courtyard with their weird but lovely melodies, their intricate rhythms and harmonies. The fountain seemed to sing with them as they wove its familiar flow into their more artful strains.

Nasuada felt the music surge into her, setting her body trembling, her breath coming in gasps, suddenly feeling a need to dance with wild abandon in the warm early spring moonlight that flooded the fountain below. Murtagh looked at her and laughed his deep open-throated laugh that was so rarely heard, that none but those few who were closest to him would have believed it came from him. He rolled gracefully to his feet and drew the casement closed, and the chamber door as well, murmuring in elvish and then, as he lay beside her again, translating "Thanks fellas, but we got this." He looked into her eyes and asked " Are you all right? They play like that for their Saturnalias, their spring fertility rites, and it does strange things to us humans, or so I've heard." Her trembling eased, she relaxed against his chest and found she could still hear the elvish music, its fey strains much fainter now. The steady beat of his heart sounded stronger and the deep susurrus of his breathing calmed her. "I love you" she said, and he held her close and murmured into her ear "My love, my lady, my betrothed, my sweet beloved." He lay still a moment, as if listening, then said to her, " Thorn wants to tell you something. Would you like to hear it from him? Or should I pass it along?" "Tell him I would like to hear it from him." She relaxed her mental defenses and heard Thorn's husky young man's voice vibrate in her mind. "Nasuada-Queen, I am happy that you have chosen my Rider for your mate. It is a great honor for us to be the ones to bond with you, to help you to fill and guard your nest. May your hatchlings be many and strong, and may our bond with you be a long and a joyous one." She spoke in her mind to the dragon and his Rider, "Thank you, my friend and the partner of my beloved. I welcome your blessing on our betrothal and I glory in the promise of becoming the spouse of your Rider and the mother of his children and mine."

Murtagh was silent for another moment and smiled, then bent to kiss her forehead. "He really likes you a lot. I know he would do anything for you. In fact, he just told me so."

"Yes, and I could feel his love for you, too - so fierce and so protective. I am glad you have him to look after you. "

He laughed softly. "I am glad of that too. I can look after myself mostly, but Thorn has my back when anything unexpected happens. And he is so intimidating, trouble tends to back away when it sees him coming."

She sighed with deep contentment and began stroking his broad deep chest, feeling its rise and fall as his breath came faster and deeper under the touch of her warm soft hands. She kissed him softly, stroking her cheek over his chest, teasing his nipples with her tongue and heard him gasp they stood up hard against her soft lips. Cupping the firm nubs against her palms, she moved lower, teasing and nibbling at the taut skin of his belly that drew in under his ribs at her touch. She nestled against him and breathed in deeply the sharpened scent of his sweat. She traced the groove that curved from his hips to his groin with her fingers, then with her tongue. She watched as his shaft hardened rising and swelling under the touch of her hand. It felt gloriously warm and alive, the veins pulsing and thrusting out, the tip emerging, red, wet and tender from its cowl of creamy bronze skin. She wanted to kiss it, and licked her lips, wondering if she dared. She glanced up to his face and read his longing, his deep desire, in his open mouth, his pleading eyes. She lowered her mouth to the tender red tip that seemed to reach up to her, and gently surrounded it with her lips. She lifted her tongue to lap it with the smooth underside of her tongue and heard as well as felt his deep moan of pleasure. Bolder now, the stroked him with all of her tongue and his moans increased. Her mouth opened wider, and, a little surprised with herself, she found herself driving deeper down his throbbing shaft until she breathed in the wild spice of his groin against her widening nostrils. Her tongue found his tender underseam and moved down it to touch the soft skin of the double sac that now filled her cupped hands with its precious warm weight of life. She stroked his hard-muscled thighs and wondered at his hard solidity. Only the soft sac he carried everywhere before him was so tender and so vulnerable, it seemed to her incredibly brave of him to wear it so exposed.

His strong hands found hers and drew them up to his lips and kissed them hungrily. Then she felt him draw her head slowly back up his shaft, then in a rush, he clasped her whole body against his and held her in a fierce embrace that drew a gasp from her throat. He rolled her over onto her back and kissed her fiercely at first, then with infinite tenderness. He drew back and his tenderness and wonder shone in his eyes as he gazed searching into hers. "Yes" was the only word she could think of to say. It filled her entire being and echoed in her mind. "Yes" she said aloud and in her mind, a wild shout. "Yes" she whispered into his neck close to his ear. "Yes" as his calloused hands stroked her from neck to thighs, "Yes" as he settled between her thighs that fell open for him, welcoming him in. "Yes, oh yes" as his hands, strong, rough, knowing, found her soft mound and began circling it with gentle and deepening pressure that sharpened within her loins a piercing pain that was no pain but an agony of pleasure and longing.

He felt her sweet wet mound rising under his hand as she lifted to his touch, circling her hips in response to his caress. He felt the soft swelling under his fingers, springing up like a wide round mushroom cap in a warm summer rain. "Oh you darling" he heard from his own throat, not quite sure if he was speaking to the warm wet mushroom or to the woman he loved. She seemed to know though, as she gurgled a deep laugh and lightly touched his circling hand and felt the bulge and slide of the muscles in his strong forearm. He traced the cleft of her vulva, warm, creaming-sweet and swelling over his fingers, drawing them in. He found her wet, flowing opening and felt her body lift and her thighs draw wide to welcome his touch.

Lifting himself over her, he let the tip of his shaft find its way to her opening, felt the tender band of her maidenhood and drew back a little for the strong deep thrust that would tear through it quickly and, he hoped, with little or no pain.

Suddenly she cried out in terror, pushed him roughly away from her and curled into a tight ball on her side, shaking with hard, wracking sobs, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs that were folded tight against her chest. He fell on his back beside her, frustration and fury tearing at him as he struggled to contain his searing hurt and bewilderment. What had he done? What had gone wrong? What was hurting her? He looked around wildly, reaching instinctively for his sword beside the bed, but dropping it as he saw there was no attacker in the room. He felt Thorn's mind against his, the dragon's anxious wordless questioning, and tried to calm his partner in the teeth of his own wild confusion. "Later" he said in his mind. "I need to deal with this first." He felt Thorn's worry and his reluctance to withdraw from their connection. "I wish you could help, too. I will let you know as soon as I can." He drew his thoughts back to Nasuada, still curled tightly away from him, shaking with hard sobs, gasping for breath with strange whooping drags of air in her throat. What could he do for her? Was she suddenly ill? He leaned over her, trying to see her face, but her sobs quickened and she wrenched herself further away from him. Sitting up against the pillows, he tried to calm his own mind, feeling his breathing, listening to his pounding heart, trying to slow them both down so he could think. Finally he turned toward her again. "Nasuada?" He spoke softly. She ignored him. He tried again, touching her on the shoulder. Again she wrenched away. She seemed to be trying to speak, or at least to suppress her sobs, but she could only whimper and moan, making no words. "Nasuada? Will you let me touch your mind? I can't bear this much longer. I want to help you. Please?" She breathed in a long ragged breath, and nodded once. He calmed his own mind, then gently brushed against hers.

A monster leapt out at him and he drew back, almost breaking their connection, but stopped and forced himself to keep looking. The monster, shaped like a tall broad-shouldered man, was dressed in red and carried a flaming brand in his hand which he swung menacingly before him. His face was covered by a mask that reflected like a mirror, magnifying the flames he waved before him, and his eyes were cruel, the eyes of one who craved to inflict pain. The monster laughed coldly as he looked down at his victim, a young woman bound and helpless on a cold slab of stone. She was naked and shaking with terror.

He knew her of course. He knew the monster too. He released his link with her and turned face down on the pillows. He thought, if he stayed that way long enough, he would run out of air and suffocate. He thought about it. He wondered how long it would take. He wondered if he could do it. He thought he probably could.

Then he thought of Thorn, and of her.

He sat up and dropped his head on his arms.

He had sworn to protect her. He felt helpless, useless, incapable, contemptible. How could he, out of all the people of Alagaesia, help or protect her from...himself?

Her memories of what he had done to her would haunt her forever. No whys, wherefores, situations or circumstances could alter what he had done to her. His love for her that filled his whole heart, his whole mind, his whole body to the bursting point, was useless to her. Her love for him... he knew it was, incredible as it seemed, as real and as strong as his for her. Yet even that could not help her. Probably it made her even more vulnerable. The thought sickened him.

Must he leave her? A pain like a huge lead weight dropped inside him. No. Not that. Please not that. But if that was the only way she could heal, then... His oath made harming her impossible for him. He thought it might kill him to leave her. Thorn might have to kidnap him, tear him away. Thorn was bound by the same oath as he was. If staying with her, was harming her, he could... and No, it would not kill him. It would tear him apart, hollow him out once more. He had lived as a hollow man before. Death would be easier. Except for Thorn. His death might kill Thorn. Probably would.

He groaned, trapped in a labyrinth of despair. No. There had to be a way out. There was always a way. He would find it if it killed him.

Her sobs had quieted as he sat with his misery. Misery was the name of his sword that his brutal, hated father had carried before him. It was no help to him now. Nor was any magic he knew of. Magic could be used to erase memories, he knew. The elves could do it. Maybe. But he knew she would not allow it. She wore her scars proudly from the Trial of the Long Knives that won her the allegiance of the Wandering Tribes. She wore her sleeves cut off at the elbows so everyone who saw her knew of her courage by her jagged scars. She would scorn to have her pain-filled memories of her torture in the dungeons of the old Tyrant taken from her. Those were her mental scars, as much a part of her as those on her arms.

The memory of pain was a burden they shared. He had told her little of his own torments at the hands of the sadistic Twins, the traitor magicians who had pretended to serve the Varden while sharing their secrets with the Tyrant, undermining their strength and finally dragging him away as their prisoner. There were many torments he could not tell her of. He thought of a line of poetry he had read or heard once:

"She loved me for the dangers I had passed,

and I loved her that she did pity them."

Her pity, her sympathy for his pain had helped him to believe in himself. How did that work? He despised being pitied. But she made him feel that the torments he had suffered, the dangers he had passed, were not right. He had not deserved to be brutally attacked by his drunken father, repeatedly abandoned by the mother he loved, to lose his best friend and trusted mentor, to be ripped from the friends he had fought beside and who had come to like and respect him, to be tortured into submission by the evil Tyrant and by those who served the Tyrant's twisted pleasures. He had not deserved any of it. He had survived, escaped and overcome much. She loved him for the dangers he had passed. She loved him for his strength and determination. So he had come to respect, even love, those qualities in himself. She had helped him, through her understanding, to understand himself, to grow into his own skin. To fill up the hollow emptiness inside him.

He turned to her now and placed his hand gently on her shoulder. This time she did not cringe away from him. He spoke her name softly and she unclenched a little. He found a clean kerchief and gave it to her. She dried her tears and finally looked up at him. She said, " I'm so sorry" and he fought back the tears in his own eyes and throat. "Oh, my poor love, you have nothing to be sorry about. I saw what frightened you. I am the one who is so terribly sorry for having hurt you so. It is beyond hope of forgiveness, for it hurts you still. I would do anything to stop the pain and fear that tears you apart. I have my own nightmares and terrors that haunt me, and if I could, I would take yours from you and carry them too, and more, because I hate that monster you saw just now. I would kill him if I could. I would rather have never existed than to have caused you such pain and horror at my hands."

She sat up beside him and pushed back her hair. Her voice was thick and hoarse but she spoke with calm, direct clarity.

"Well, you do exist and you are here with me now. I want you to go on existing and to go on being with me." She took his hands and kissed his palms. "Now hold me and comfort me as you did in our worst of times and in our happy times too. I know our best times are ahead of us still, and I want you here to hold me like this, in my life and at my death." She laid her head on his chest and drew his arms around her. He held her close and stroked her hair. He listened as her breathing became slow and even.

His face is calm now but his eyes are troubled still.

"Did you bite her too hard?" Thorn's voice sounds softly inside his head.

He smiles; his eyes close. "No. It wasn't that. It was a memory. A very bad one."

"Oh. Memories bite hard. Is she better now? Were you able to heal her?"

"She is sleeping. I don't know how to heal what she remembers. I doubt if anyone can. "

"You will find a way. You healed my wing when Saphira had nearly torn it off. You healed me from wounds of tooth and claw, spear and sword. You healed her burns and bites too. You are a strong healer. "

"I am glad you think so. But memories are harder. "

They are silent together, each following his own thoughts, but still connected to each other.

Thorn speaks again. "When we first flew against the Varden on the Burning Plains..."

"Yes?"

"You saw those two evil magicians who had tortured you."

"The Twins. I remember."

"You stopped your fight with Eragon so you could watch them be killed by a Varden."

"That was Eregon's cousin Roran. The one they call Stronghammer. He smashed both their skulls with his hammer."

"You liked watching that. You like remembering it. You speak of it and think of it, and you feel happier when you do."

"That is true. Their deaths were too quick and too easy for men who had done so much evil, but I am glad they are dead. You are right. I liked watching them die, and I like remembering their deaths and praising Cousin Stronghammer."

"Does that remembering change your memories of the pain they caused you?"

"No, of course not. I still remember everything they did to me."

" You remember, but maybe the pain memories have lost their teeth. You remember the pain, but it no longer bites and tears at your dreams. Other memories do, but not those."

"You know, you are right. I did not conquer those two, but I saw them conquered and utterly destroyed. Somehow that helped."

"You helped their conqueror. By not warning them, you helped the one who killed them."

"Well. Only a little."

"When you saw them killed, your fear of them died. Maybe it is fear that keeps the teeth sharp in the memory of pain."

Murtagh thought about that. Thorn was still very young, but the wisdom of dragons is carried on the wings of time, passed down through the generations. The teeth in the memory of pain... could those teeth be drawn from her memories in a way that would not kill them both? How could she conquer the monster in her dreams? How could he help her?

Now he was sure there was a way.

He knew he would find it.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Conquest of Fear

"Maybe it is fear that keeps the teeth sharp in the memory of pain."

Now he was sure there was a way.

He knew he would find it.

«««««««««««««»»»»»»»»»»»»

When he felt her sleep deepen, he slid away from her and and gently laid her head against the pillows. He pulled the covers over her shoulders. It was time to prepare.

The room was dark and cool now, the voices from the courtyard stilled. He lit the fire in her bed-chamber and brought from the next room the stand that held her royal seals and the jeweled metal pot used for heating the purple sealing wax. He lit the wicks of the oil lamps beneath the metal seals and the pot of wax. He added more sticks of purple wax to the pot and lined them up on the raised hearth before the fire. Next he lifted the padded bench by the foot of the bed and placed it near the fire, covering it with a rough woolen rug. Taking a knife from his sword belt, he reached up and cut the gold satin cords that held open the curtains across the foot of the bed, letting the dark velvet draperies fall together. The cords he tied to each leg of the flat bench.

A tall mirror stood to one side, opposite a high-backed, velvet-covered chair at one end of the bench. He shifted the mirror slightly, glancing at his reflection in the firelit room. He took a long dark velvet robe from a chest in a corner and draped it over the tall chair by the fire. He stroked the soft ermine that outlined the deep opening at the neck and circled behind to form a wide high collar. Farica had done a good job with the furs he had brought back from the North. H opened a small wooden box and lifted out an ornate gold mask he had found among the old tyrant's treasure horde and placed it on the mantelpiece.

Then he lit the tall candles on the mantlepiece and turned back to the bed. The reflection in the mirror of the candlelight on his back and shoulders caught his eye and he stood a moment, studying the long scar from shoulder to hip where his father had slashed him with his sword as a young child. He glanced over the brandmarks from his lower back to his calves, part of his punishment by the dwarves for killing their king. Finally he stroked the recent burns on his forearms that still stung a bit when touched. They were nearly healed. He returned to the bed and slid in next to her, trying not to wake her just yet.

The candlelight shone on her dark cheek, her wildly curling hair, and teased her eyelids open. She yawned and stretched her long arms, her muscles sliding beneath her skin.

"Is it time to get up?" she asked, her voice still thick and soft with sleep.

"Oh no" he replied. "Not for hours yet."

Glancing around the room, she asked "What were you doing just now? I thought I heard something."

" Sorry, I was trying not to wake you."

"You didn't. I heard you moving around and went back to sleep. I feel wide awake now."

"Good. I want to show you something." He stood and held out his hand. She took it and saw the deep purple robe with its fur trim lying over the chair. She reached out to stroke the soft fur.

"Oh, it's lovely! Put it on me?" He was already lifting it over her shoulders, guiding the sleeves up her arms. She watched in the mirror as he fastened the hidden clasp beneath her breasts, lifting them between the soft furs. He stood back to watch her take in her reflection. He smiled as she turned and posed, delighting in her own beauty and in the richness of his gift. "You brought these back with you?" She asked him, her eyes shining.

He nodded. "I gave them to Farica months ago and then forgot, until she asked me about making them into a betrothal gift for you. How do you like it?"

"It's perfect. It makes me look like..."

"A queen. The loveliest queen who has ever lived. As you are. But there is more to the gift. Will you wear this as well, tonight, for my sake?"

He took the intricate gold mask from the mantel and held it before her. The candlelight glanced from its carved scrolls and whorls, dancing off the fine gold chains that fell in wide loops from its center to its corners.

"What ... is it a mask? I...its very pretty, but..." Her eyes looked into his, troubled. "Why?"

He placed the mask on the hearth beside the rack of seals and the pot of molten wax. In the flickering firelight it looked ruddy, almost alive. He took her hand, drew her into the chair and dropped to one knee beside her. He bent and kissed her hand, then turned his forearms up so the scars of the seals she had placed on his arms looked up at her across her lap.

"When you gave me these, I dared to hope that I would one day be able to ask for your seal on my heart as well. You gave me such deep joy when you pressed these marks, the marks of your favor, onto my arms that longed to fight for you, to serve you and to hold you close to me. Today, when we stood together in the public square, we gave our hearts into each other's keeping. That gift is precious to me beyond imagining, the gift of your trust, given in the sight of all the world. I know the risk you took, the damage you accepted to your own prestige and to the trust of your people that you have worked so hard to earn."

She started to speak, but he went on.

"Please, there is more I need to say if you will hear it."

She nods. "Go on. I am listening." He lays his head in her lap and she strokes his hair. He looks up at her again.

"Those terrible memories that rose up between us tonight... I dread they will reappear. Do they come before you often in that terrifying way?"

"Not so very often now. At first, yes. I dreamed them all night, every night, over and over. I seldom slept, and they came out of nowhere when I worked, even in the daylight. I thought they were almost gone, but just lately...they have come back sometimes. As they did tonight."

He sank onto his heels, looking down at his hands. "I have been thinking, trying to find a way to help you banish them. To drive away that monster who haunts your memory."

"Oh Murtagh. What can either of us do but wait, and build happy memories that in time will overcome those horrible ones? I won't have my past stolen from me, no matter how painful. I think you know that already. "

"I know. I would never ask that of you."

"Then what do you ask of me? I would do what you ask, anything that I can. You know that. "

"Your seal on my heart. Your Great Seal. And for you to wear the gold mask, and, if you can, to let me touch your mind as you give it. I know it is a lot to ask."

"It is a strange gift. How will it help us?"

"Thorn gave me the idea. Indirectly, I mean. He said that fear is what keeps the teeth of memory sharp. I hoped I could draw those teeth. Not to remove the memories, only to lighten them so they no longer tear at you so."

"Fear. To draw out the fear and leave the remembrance. Is that what you propose?"

"That's the idea. I think it might actually work, but I can't be sure."

"I would like to try it then. Why the mask, though? Is that part of the magic?"

"I think you will soon know, if you don't already."

"Then let us begin." She stands and takes the mask, examines it, and places it over her face. While she looks in the mirror, he lies on his back on the bench and speaks a word in the Ancient Language. The cords rise and tangle themselves over his wrists and ankles, knotting themselves tight.

"I am bound here until you release me."

She looks from him to the mirror and back to him. "You are sure about this? "

"I am sure. I am ready."

She takes up the jeweled pot of wax and touches the side. She gasps and draws back her hand.

"May I now touch your mind?" he asks. She nods. He closes his eyes and the image of the monster with the shiny silver mask appears in the mirror. She looks away, then back to the mirror, where her own reflection now stares back at her, the pot still in her hand. She looks down and sees the monster, his red jacket torn wide open, his wrists and ankles bound, his burning brand lying half- extinguished on the hearth. She reaches out to tear off his silver mask, but seeing herself reflected, in regal robe and her own golden mask, she leaves it in place. She looks into the tall mirror and and sees him lying bound and helpless before her. She has him in her power. He lies at her feet, helpless. Her anger rises within her and she tips the hot wax onto his naked chest. She reaches for the Great Seal of her reign, its surface smoking hot, and takes its smooth wooden handle in both hands. Its reflection fills his silver mask as she drives it down hard onto the pool of wax on his chest. He writhes and screams in agony as she, laughing, tears off his mask.

The monster is gone. The shiny mask and burning brand are gone. The reflection in the tall mirror shows her to herself as his masked and robed conqueror. She smiles, triumphant, the Victorious Queen of the Varden, no more a victim of her fears.

The man on the bench, naked and stamped with her royal crest, is quiet now, though he writhes still, struggling against the gold cords. She regards him coolly. "This is empty," she says, placing the wax pot back on the hearth. "Take the candle," he gasps. She reaches up and removes one of the lighted yellow tapers from its holder. She studies herself in the mirror once more. Holding the candle over him, she says "Raise your chin to me." The conquered man, monster no more, tilts his head back as far as it will go and waits for her. She drops a trail of wax across his throat. "Turn your head." As he complies, she tips the candle over his neck, watching the drops fall, and continues to the other side as he turns his head again. Good, she thinks. He anticipates. He lies quiet as she drops the hot wax over his chest, only uttering a gasping moan as she circles each nipple. "Shall I continue?" she asks. "Yes, please, my lady." His voice is husky, almost hoarse, as he searches her masked face with his wide-open eyes.

The candle holds a great dollop of molten wax in its hollow now. It is enough to cap each nipple, causing him to writhe and squirm, and drawing muffled screams from his clenched jaws. She chuckles to see his shaft begin to fill and rise as the hot wax traces its way down his belly to his groin. "A brave soldier! " she coos. "He rises to meet his liegelord, not knowing what his fate will be. Shall we grant him a bright new helmet perhaps?" Now his gasp sharpens and his eyes open wider. "Please, my lady, not there! I beg you... I'll do anything, but please not there!" He is not playing now, and he is not sure if she is.

"No?" She blows out the candle and drops it on the hearth. She swings over him, the soft robe teasing his legs. She lowers herself until she feels the tip of his shaft and fits it against her warn streaming crease. Stroking him within her vulva, she takes off the gold mask and drops it. She watches his face, ruddy, glowing with yearning and sweat. Her hips rise up as her hunger for him builds into a piercing sweet ache. She fits his warm, throbbing tip against the opening of her sheath and sinks onto him, taking the fullness of his shaft inside her to the root. She says within her mind and aloud, "I release you!"

"Jierda!" At his command in the Ancient Language, the gold cords fly apart. His arms claim her, his legs circle her and he pulls her body close, his legs lifting hers and clasping them tightly around his fullness. Pressed close over him, her legs squeezed together, her soft mound nestles tight against the arch of his groin. She presses herself down on him as a sweet warm glow of pleasure rises within her like a cloud of golden light.

"May I...?" she feels his question in her mind before he speaks it aloud, and she opens herself to him, eager to share with him the sweet warmth of her pleasure. She feels him drinking it in, welcoming her joy. Then she feels him gently guiding her, shifting her focus to his own sensations of the shape and feel of her sheath around him. She follows his thoughts, amazed at the pleasure she gives him, realizing that there is nothing, nothing in the world that he longs for, seeks and strives for, more than this simple act of her presence surrounding him. He shows her his quickening rise to each move she makes, each gentle squeezing clasp of her warm wet sheath, their gasps of shared joy rising together like smoke from a dragon's nostrils. He thrusts into her, slow and gentle, kindling the golden cloud of pleasure into brightening flares.

Now he shares with her the feel of the small rough patch, the low foothills that rise within her like shadows at each golden flare. His thrusts quicken and she feels the glowing heat, the slick wetness, and the roughening of her inner terrain. She arches against him, meeting his thrusts with rolling and grasping moves, feeling the ridges and ravines he plows deep and strokes smooth within her. She quickens her thrusts and he meets her pace, arching up hard against her and bracing into her as she vibrates wildly around him until the rose-gold warmth explodes into shimmering bursts of ineffable sweetness, glowing and receding again and again until she has no more breath to claim them. Utterly spent, soft as down, warm and wet as a winning racehorse, she collapses over him and breathes, gasping, in his arms.

He holds her tenderly, rocking her gently in his arms. "Is it well with you, my lady?"

The quaint formality of his question teases her lips into a smile. "It is very well with me, my lord, my Prince, my lover, my Shur'tugal."

"Lover and Shur'tugal I accept, but those other names..."

"Only when we are alone like this. If you can bear it."

"Call me what you like then, but kiss me now."

The kiss they share lingers long. At last she rocks back and straddles him as before. "Now my lord, let me serve your pleasure." She looks into his eyes and he sees the question in hers. He answers with the touch of his mind against hers. "As you will, my love."

Entering his mind, feeling his thoughts and sensations, she lifts her body gently over him, slow and low, then a little higher, a little faster each stroke until she finds his deepest pleasure in the brisk rocking rhythm of her hips, the clasp and release of her thighs. She hears his breathing quicken, feels his body lift under her, knowing the fierce hot pressure that builds within him, filling his mind, pushing away all other thoughts. She feels his aching need and meets his thrusting rhythm, clasping him within her with all the strength of her love, welcoming his fierce struggle for release.

When he comes, his climax is hard and long, tearing the air from his lungs in a gasping moan, driving his body arching against her and relaxing again and again until he subsides into brief shaking spasms and lies still, his deep chest rising and falling in a heaving, slowing rhythm.

"Gods," he finally gasps out. "Gods and demons above and below." He meets her eyes that glow with love for him. He wipes away the tears of release and joy that are running into his ears, and shows them to her with something like a laugh. "I have needed you so much, for so long, it felt like forever. Promise me you will never send me away... that you will never leave me. "

She laughs out loud, a ringing peal that she stifles quickly.

"I just did that, under the noonday sun of this very day. Have you forgotten already?" Her tone is teasing but her eyes are soft, her lips warm against his. "And I promise now, and will promise again as much as you like. I will never let you go while I have breath in my lungs."

"And i promise you again that I am yours as long as we live. And I believe it was yesterday. Maybe we have a few hours to sleep before they all get up and want to see us."

"I feel I could sleep for days." She rises slowly and gives him her hand, leading him back to the wide soft bed.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Magicians

Chapter Three

The Magicians' Guild

Murtagh, neatly dressed and wearing his own close-trimmed beard and mustache, stands on the covered porch of a house in a quiet, rather shabby-genteel street in Ileria. He knocks and waits, looking around. A young girl opens the door part-way and peers out cautiously.

Murtagh: Good morning, miss. May I speak with Mistress Elandia please?

Girl: It's very early sir. We're not opening for another two hours yet.

M: (pleasantly) Yes. I was hoping to see her early, before business claims her attention. We are old friends, you see. I do think she will want to speak with me. It needn't take long.

G: What name shall I say, sir?

M: Just tell her, a friend of Tornac's would like a word, please.

G: Right. Wait here, sir. (Door closes. After a moment it flies open and a Elandia appears. She is a florid, energetic middle-aged woman dressed in a loose but colorful morning robe and red slippers, her hair mostly wrapped in a bright scarf. She stops short when she sees Murtagh.

M: (bowing) Good morning, Mistress Elandia. It is good of you to see me so early.

E: Stars and garters, it IS you! We all thought you were dead! Then we heard you joined the Varden, then there were rumors you were back, and now - let me look at you.

Handsome as ever, I see. All grown up and dashing, with a beard now and. . . What's this I hear? Actually going to marry that new Varden queen? Well, I don't know much about her, but I know she is some lucky lady to get hold of you!

M: (laughing quietly) And you are just as full of chaff as ever, and even more beautiful than I remember.

E: Now that's the kind of talk I like to hear before breakfast. You'd better join me and we'll have a good long chat. I'll have them bring it out here. Don't worry, the gardener's deaf as a post, so we can let our hair down and have a good gossip. (She knocks on the window and gestures to the young girl inside. She takes Murtagh's arm and walks with him to the wide rounded corner of the porch where there is a table with chairs. He pulls out a chair for her and sits across from her where he can see the door and the garden.)

E: (insinuating) Now tell me what brings you here, away from all your vitally important palace duties? It's not just to come down for a gossip with an old friend, hmmm?

Young girl: (enters with tray of hot tea and pastries and serves them.) Will there be anything else, ma'am?

Elandia: (looks at Murtagh, who shakes his head. She waves the girl away, but calls her back. ) See that the drawing room windows stay closed for now. We will air the rooms later.

YG: Yes'm. ( She curtsies and goes back into the house.)

E: (pours the tea) Now, and where were we?

M: Gossiping like old friends?

E: What would you like to hear? I know you are always full of questions, so out with them.

M: What has the city been like lately? How is business? Are you still seeing your old clients, or is it a new set since the war? How about the girls? New faces? Anyone I know still around?

E: Oh my dear, not many of those, I'm afraid. Why is it that after a war, they all want to get married? Pouf, off they go! Daisy and Rosie, who used to like you so much - gone off as soon as asked! Ah well, they were good girls anyway. Fellows are lucky to get them.

The new lot are not so cheerful, either. War widows, mostly. Orphans looking after the mother and sisters and babies at home. I try to tell them to smile, that the men who come here have troubles too and are wanting to forget. They do try, but most of them have not been brought up to expect this kind of life for themselves. My heart does go out to them.

And the clients, oh my dear. So many with great pieces of themselves missing, halting on sticks, barely able to get about. Many more who don't talk, don't seem to hear what anyone says to them, don't seem to really see or hear the girls at all; just in and out, you know. Some just sit and drink, some hardly order a thing. It's a different business, that's for sure. Not near as much money coming in, and not so much fun either.

M: Do you ever think about retiring? Or going into a different line of work?

E: Oh well, I can't just lol about. It would give me the fidgets. And what other trade can I take up? I've always hated sewing, I'm a hopeless cook, and standing at a bar for hours on end would do my back in inside of a week. Anyone rich enough to pay a housekeeper is far too elevated, my dear, to take me on at any price. So it looks like I may as well carry on here.

M. There are a few things I've been asked to take on, that I could use some help with. I think you might be the one who could help me.

E: What, work for the Palace? Me?

M: I remember a few times when you came to the Castle in the old days.

E: (laughs loudly) "The Old Days", he says, says he! I seem to remember bringing Daisy and Rosie up there for your sixteenth birthday. I'll never forget how they two rolled about in fits of giggles when you asked them to show you how to please a woman. That was a question they never thought to hear from a man.

M: That was when you took over and showed me.

E: (shivers) Mmmm, and you learned fast, too, at all of sixteen years old. What age are you now, nineteen?

M: Twenty-two in October.

E: Oh Ancient One! I do apologize for my levity.

M: No apologies, please. Your visits were among the very few bright spots I remember from those days. Somehow I never minded when you laughed at me. Still don't, in fact.

E: Aye, you were growing into a right charmer even then. If I'd any idea there was a queen in the offing, I'd have bet my money on you as the one who would claim her. There you go blushing again! Even with that beard, it is really quite fetching. Well, I suppose I may as well face the fact that I'm going to agree to do whatever it is you are about to ask. I always have. So what is it? Information of course. Who is my victim then?

M: It's really not so dire this time. I just need to find a few capable magic users who may be approachable about forming a guild. You don't need to talk to them about that, in fact I prefer you didn't. Just chat with them, find out a little about what they can do, and pass along the names of some who you think may be amenable. You can leave out the ones who are too close-mouthed or suspicious. They're not the ones we need in the beginning.

(Takes her hand in both of his) Could you do that for me? The Palace would show their appreciation of course, and I would be most grateful.

E: It seems simple enough. Not that we get a great many magicians here, but . . . I do know a few, and could find a few more, I'm sure.

M: (leans back with a relieved sigh) Thank you, Elandia. I was sure I could rely on you.

E: You know that I owe you a great deal, my friend. We won't go into all that now. He cared for you as if you were his own son. I am sure he died easier having your promise in mind about the children.

M: I wish I'd never... well, no, I don't wish that. He was determined to come with me that night. I just wish I hadn't made such a mess of things. . . . He was much, much more than a father to me. I went nearly mad with grief for losing him. I still miss him terribly.

E: I miss him too. No one could ask for a more caring brother. You should meet the children. One is so very like him. . .

M: Perhaps when they are... Oh, of course I will. Let me know when, and I will make the time.

E: Good man. Now I really must get to work. It was good to see you. Don't stay away!

M: No, I will be in touch. I promise.

(They embrace quickly and she goes in. He looks up at the house for a moment, then turns and leaves. )


	4. Chapter 4 - The League of the Wise

The Queen's Seal

Chapter Four

Scene Two

The Queens workroom in the Palace. Late afternoon.

Murtagh and Nasuada are relaxing on the balcony with drinks at hand.

Nasuada: So you spent the morning there. Did you see many people?

Murtagh: I think you want to know, did many people see me? Only Elandia and a girl who opened the door. It was fairly quiet at that time of day. I doubt if anyone recognized me.

N: And you think she will be able to help us?

M: I think it's likely.

(There is a knock and Farica enters.)

F: A note has come for you, sir. The messenger did not wait for a reply.

M: Thank you, Farica. (She goes out. He examines the pink seal, opens the note and reads it. He hands it to Nasuada.)

N: The cellar door? Why does she want you to go there?

M: Well, the cellar isn't open to clients, so possibly she thinks I would prefer it to the public rooms. She's right of course.

N: Murtagh, are you sure she is trustworthy? This isn't... some sort of trap?

M: No, I've known her for years. Of course I'll go armed in the city. Everyone does. Whatever happens, I'll be ready for it.

N: Will you take Thorn, just in case?

M: He may be too big now to land in a small back garden. But there's no way he will stay here. We may have to find a place for him to wait nearby so we can keep in touch.

N: Then I will go with you, and stay with him until you know what this is all about.

M: What? No, it's too dangerous for you.

N: You just said it isn't a trap. Whatever happens, you can handle it, remember? Anyway, I'm curious too. I want to meet her.

M: (Opens his mouth to object, then closes it.) I'm sure she will be honored to meet you. But please promise me you will stay with Thorn until I contact you? I don't know how long this will take, and if I am worrying about you, I'll won't be able to focus on whatever is there. Promise me, please?

N: I promise. And you must swear you won't take any unnecessary risks. I worry too, you know.

M: I swear it. (They kiss.)

Scene Three

Cellar under Elandia's house. Wine bottles are stored in wooden racks and several large barrels and crates are scattered around. Candles set in wine bottles are on three or four of the larger barrels, with wooden stools or crates drawn up to them. There is a short stone stairway at the back leading up to a slanted metal cellar door. The atmosphere is smoky, but the room is clean though bare and basic. Most of the stools and upended crates are occupied by hooded figures, some of whom are smoking pipes.

Two knocks, a pause, then three knocks are heard on the metal door. The hooded figures look up, glancing around to see who is missing. A young man speaks up softly.

YM: Shall I see who it is? (Several nod or wave their pipes towards the door. He goes to the back and calls up the stair) Say the password!

Murtagh: Tornac.

YM: Then enter if you will.

(The doors open and Murtagh descends. He wears his cloak with the hood covering most of his face. A tall magician stands and pushes back his hood.)

TM: Greetings, friend of Tornac. Make a light and let us see your face.

M: Brisinger un bolle rauta (a ball of red light appears just over his forehead and he pushes back his hood.)

TM: (Coming closer and examining him) You! You claim to be a friend of Tornac?

M: More than that. He was much more than a father to me, and I am told (glancing up) that he regarded me as a son in all but blood.

TM: Yet you betrayed him to his death!

M: Never. We were both betrayed, through my ignorance and arrogance. I would never have turned on him.

TM: We will hear your tale, then, before we decide. But do you not serve the Varden Queen now?

M: Aye, that I do.

TM: She seeks to bring us under her heel, and you are sent to make us her servants as well! Is that not true?

( The cellar doors swing open with a crash and Nasuada stands at the top of the steps. Thorn hovers close behind her.)

Nasuada: It is not! (She descends the steps while 's head hovers over her and his bulk fills the doorway.)

I am no tyrant like Galbatorix, seeking to make all creep and crawl before me. I led the Varden to victory against him for the sake of those he crushed beneath his evil will. I resisted him under torture of mind and body, and he could not break me to his service.

Of all the evil tricks he used, the enslavement of his enemies through the knowledge of their true names is the one that I most hate and fear for my people. Those whom he enslaved are free now. Perhaps some of you are among them? (Pause. No one meets her gaze.)

I have come to see you to share my earnest wish that this abominable practice of name slavery or mind control must never be allowed to rear its head again in this land. I am here to invite you to form a league of magic users who will find ways to limit the abuse of this power. I am no magician myself. I must rely on others who have this power to manage its use.

You all know that abuses both great and petty can occur, for magical power comes to the foolish and ignorant as well as to the wise and good, such as all of you here. I ask you now, will you consider how to take this burden on yourselves, for the good of this land and of its people?

(Silence. All look down at first, then exchange quick glances. )

TM: Lady Nasuada, you ask a great deal of us. As you see, we here are but few, and you should know that many of us are not well known even to each other. We only recently began meeting here, and one motive for our convergence was to combine such power as we command to resist the control of another who might seek to limit our use of magic. What you have said to us merits our attention, but we cannot commit to any course of action without a goodly course of discussion and much pondering of your request.

N: That is all I require of you for the present. If there is anything you would ask of me, I will hear it now, or when you will. May I also ask that Murtagh Shur'tugal be admitted to your councils?

TM: We have already agreed to hear what he has to say. We would be pleased if you too would join us this evening as our honored guest.

N: I accept with pleasure. (Murtagh places a stool for her while the young magician draws a tankard of mead and sets it before her. All settle in to hear Murtagh tell his tale.)

TM: Shur'tugal?

M: (Takes a drink from the tankard and begins.) You all know who sired me. Most of you know that and not much else about me. But Morzan was never a father to me as that word is understood by most men. I learned early to hate and fear him and to avoid him as much as a child can. By the time I was five, both my parents were dead.

I was brought here to be raised in the Castle, under the eye of the old Tyrant who hoped to form me into a replica of Morzan. I was fortunate that he did not take much interest in me for many years. During my youth, Tornac was my teacher. He trained me to ride and to fight with various weapons and with none, but his greatest skill and his passion was swordsmanship. From him I learned to wield a blade, but far more valuable than anything else, I learned self-mastery.

Magic took no part in my training, for neither Tornac nor myself had any trace of it. When I turned eighteen, the Tyrant began to draw me into his service. I soon saw him in his true colors as a cruel and selfish man who did not deserve to be called a king. I made up my mind to flee, but I could not leave my friend and teacher in ignorance of my plans. I went to say goodbye, but he was determined to go with me and I could not dissuade him. A guard I had trusted betrayed us and Tornac was killed. The knife that was thrown into his back and through his heart - i felt it pierce my own heart, but he ordered me to go on and I knew that I could not help him. I left and hid myself until I found the strength to go on my way alone.

Before long, I met with Eregon and Saphira on the road and began traveling with them. We soon became friends and, when he decided to join the Varden, I went with him to Tronjheim. As I had expected, the Varden soon found out whose son I was, and kept me confined for a few days. When they were attacked by an Urgal horde, I was asked to fight alongside them. That battle we won, but our leader Ajihad was killed by treachery a few days later. The same traitors who killed him captured me and dragged me back here. They were strong in magic and in torture, though no match for the cruel Tyrant they served.

I needed all my strength and all the skill in mental defense I had learned from Tornac to hold out against the Tyrant's

demands to serve him. He found a way through those defenses when my friend here hatched from his egg. Torture of myself I could bear, but not of him. I submitted in order to protect him, and we were allowed to live, both enslaved to the Tyrant's evil will.

So the son of Morzan became a replica of his father after all. For a while. The vicious deeds I committed during that time haunt my dreams and dog my steps. Though the enslavement of my will ended many months ago, the consequences will never end.

I am here with you now, my friends, to share my memories of my time as a man enslaved through knowledge of my true name. I ask you, is this a power anyone should be allowed to use against another?

I do not open my mind to others easily or willingly. Before I learned to use magic, I learned to defend my mind against magical intrusion. For this one purpose only, if it will help any of you to decide to join yourselves into a league of trustworthy magicians to keep the careless, the greedy and the power-mad from usurping the natural right of each person to his own thoughts, his own will and mind - for that purpose only, I will share with you, one at a time, such memories of mine as you wish to examine.

(Silence. They look around at each other, then their eyes drop to their hands and they dibble at their pipes and drink from their tankards.)

TM: Your spoken memories are enough for us, Murtagh Shur'tugal. We know you speak the truth, for, as Queen Nasuada has suggested, we lived through much the same experiences in recent years. We share your memories already through your story and through our own.

N: (Standing) For my part, I thank all of you for your kind welcome and hospitality this evening. Thorn will carry me home, and return here for you, Murtagh Shur'tugal, if that is your wish?

M: I would like to stay a little longer, if agreeable to those here.

TM: You are welcome to join us in our quiet carouse, Rider.

M: Good, then I will return among you shortly. (He gives his arm to Nasuada and they go up the steps together.)

N: Again, my thanks and a good night to you all.

TM and Others: Good night, Lady Nasuada. Sleep well. Slytha wiase, Nasuada Drottning.

End of Scene Three


End file.
